


The World of Safe People

by pocky_slash



Series: Iowa [2]
Category: West Wing
Genre: Companion Piece, First Time, Iowa, M/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-07
Updated: 2008-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Will is not entirely surprised that, of all people, it's Sam who does find him in Iowa.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World of Safe People

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented on excerpts of this over the years. Special thanks to [](http://quatredeathlady.livejournal.com/profile)[**quatredeathlady**](http://quatredeathlady.livejournal.com/) and [](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/profile)[**leiascully**](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/) for giving it a once over and [](http://inocciduous.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inocciduous.livejournal.com/)**inocciduous** , who once called this her favorite TWW AU ever :)

When Will accepts the job in Iowa, he doesn't know who to tell. His family, of course, but he's not sure who else to bother. He's not even sure if these people are his friends, if they ever were, so he tells CJ when she asks, but doesn't go out of his way to tell anyone else. He resolves to tell only those who ask, and the list ends up amounting to Toby, who hears from CJ and calls to berate him, and Donna, who calls after he's already moved but before he switches his cell number to an Iowa exchange.

He actually feels guilty for not telling Donna. They're not close, exactly, but he sometimes thinks Donna knows more about him than anyone outside of his family. Long campaigns and awkward come-ons will do that to a person.

"I'm sorry," he had said to her the night after his stilted proposition, "I didn't--you're a lovely woman, Donna, and I'm sorry I tried to use you like that."

"It's okay," she said, and then sniffed a little, as if she couldn't tell Will was drunk just by looking at him. "It's Sam, isn't it?" she added, closing the door to her room behind him.

"I..." He had wanted to fight it, but it was easier to just give in. "How'd you know?"

"It's always been Sam, Will," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "We all knew it. I just wished we could have warned you before you got sucked in. Sam's great at beginnings, but he's terrible at endings."

"Yeah," Will said. "Yeah." They sat together in her room for nearly half an hour, not saying anything, and to this day he thinks he learned more about her in that half hour than in the rest of the time on the campaign combined.

When she calls him that day in Iowa, he lets her berate him for leaving her out of the loop and tells her his new number. After that, the conversation trails off.

"Who else knows about Iowa?" she finally asks.

"No one," he says. "Well, that's not true. My family. CJ and Danny. Toby." He hears her hum on the other end of the line. "It's not like I'm trying to keep it a secret," he clarifies. "You can tell whoever you want. I just don't feel like I have anyone to tell anymore."

"Maybe you'll find someone in Iowa," she says. "Maybe someone in Iowa will find you."

Will tries hard not to laugh, not to snort in derision, because who, _who_ would ever find him in the middle of nowhere, in Iowa?

***

Will is not entirely surprised that, of all people, it's Sam who does find him. It takes him a few years, but it's almost as if Will has been waiting for it, because he's not nearly as shocked as he should be when he opens his office door to see Sam Seaborn standing in his doorway, looking tired and older and scared and lost.

"I don't understand," Sam says. This is the second time. Will was too surprised to process the first. "Why Iowa?"

Will has been asking himself that question for years. "They offered me the job," he says. Sam nods, face clouded and introspective, until Will asks him why he's here. He stammers and rambles

"I came to yell at you," he says at the end, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his voice, no real anger, and Will's not at all surprised when he admits he might be having a breakdown. He takes Sam to the student union, acts like this isn't monumental, like it isn't a big deal. He starts to talk about whatever comes to mind, passing the time and feeling more and more unhinged as Sam just sits there and drinks coffee and nods at him, like the relationship drama in Will's freshman US Politics course is riveting and insightful and deserves his full attention.

He's not sure how to ask Sam why he's here, what he's doing, and Sam isn't quick to drop any hints. It's not until they're walking towards the parking lot and Will sees the boxes loaded into Sam's car that he pauses, missing a beat in this elaborate charade he's been acting out since discovering Sam in the hallway. He rubs the back of his head, anxiously, not sure how to proceed.

"I quit my job," Sam says, nervous and embarrassed, not quite able to look Will in the eye.

He should say, _I know the number of a good hotel,_ or _What the hell are you doing here, Sam?_

Instead he says, "Okay, I have a spare room," and only hates himself a little for the way his heart soars at the look of relief on Sam's face.

They go back into his office to collect his bags and he sketches out basic directions on a napkin, just in case Sam gets lost, as if there's any way for him to miss the turns in the midst of soy, corn, more soy, more corn, and some horses. The moment he closes the door to his own car, the moment he's finally alone, he starts to shake. He hates being melodramatic, especially about something as cliché as this, but he can't stop it. He hasn't even spoken to Sam since the call he made after Sam's heart-breaking House race. He's e-mailed him once or twice, usually when drunk or maudlin or both, but he's never gotten a response and the last e-mail was years ago, when he stepped in at the last minute for Toby, when he was sure he'd crash and burn. He thought maybe Sam would offer advice or commiseration, but once again, he was met with silence. He wondered if Sam had changed his e-mail address, but he was too afraid to find out, too sure he'd just end up disappointed to discover that wasn't the case.

But here is Sam, in the flesh, in _Iowa_ , looking more scared and alone than Will has ever seen him.

And tired. Sam looks tired.

Will can't ignore Sam, doesn't want to shout at him, and can't turn him away, so he takes him into the house, shows him the guest bedroom, introduces him to Andrew Jackson, who is waiting for them on the front porch with a dead mouse, as if he knew there was a new human to welcome home.

He does it all on autopilot, and then he closes himself in his office and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pull himself together enough to make dinner, enough to be what Sam needs from him. A friend. A colleague. A landlord. Enough to vanquish the thought that Sam shouldn't be sleeping alone in the guest bedroom, that this isn't how their reunion is supposed to happen.

***

When Will used to allow himself the indulgence of fantasizing about seeing Sam again, he imagined it would be life-altering. In reality, little changes. He adjusts himself to having another person in the house, to buying groceries for two. He spends a weekend showing Sam around town, instructing him on the best places to get produce, pie, a haircut, books. He introduces him to the landlord, teaches him how to twist the water control in the shower just right, and tells him when Jackson gets his meals, all with an ease that feels foreign. After that, things go back to normal. Will goes to school every day and comes home in the evenings. He still spends office hours going over his grad students' theses, still has coffee with Rosemary and Rob on their shared downtime.

Nothing changes at all, except there's Sam, sitting and staring and saying nothing, never saying anything, driving Will absolutely crazy with his silence.

He writes in an e-mail to Elsie, _It's almost like caring for a child._

He deletes it immediately, because it really isn't, not even a little, not even if Will wants it to be. The thing of it is, he doesn't _need_ to be caring for Sam. Sam is perfectly capable of caring for himself and Will gets the impression that if he were to skip out after work one afternoon, disappear for a night, Sam would barely notice.

He hopes that's not true as he puts his fingers back on the keyboard and continues his e-mail to his sister.

The problem is that Will doesn't know what to do and Sam seems to expect him to have all the answers, as if this mediocre job at a mid-rated university is some kind of zen calming experience that's brought Will to terms with everything that's colored their lives. He seems to have come to Will seeking solace and answers and while Will has always bent over backwards to give Sam whatever he wants, he doesn't know if he can pull this off. He's barely coping with his own life on a day to day basis and now he has to watch Sam sleep on his couch and fight with his coffee maker and talk to his cat and he thinks it might be killing him bit by bit. He spends his entire drive from work each evening breathing hard and trying to make sense of things and a half an hour in his office next morning willing a breakdown to come. He thinks if he just lets it all out the knots will disappear from his stomach and he really can be the person Sam seems to think he is.

It hasn't happened yet, though, and there are mere days left of the semester. He doesn't know what he's going to do once he's stuck spending every day with Sam, so he sends Elsie increasingly frantic e-mails and prays that she can provide some insight into his problems.

_You don't give yourself enough credit, Willy_ , she writes instead, and he has to close his laptop and try very hard to keep from screaming.

He doesn't know where everyone gets the impression that he's anything other than a tightly wound, constantly nervous failure of a man who can't even keep his own life straight, let alone anything else.

He tells his father this in between sharp breaths when he calls him a few moments later. He tells him about Sam and about expectations and about how Iowa is the most infuriatingly soothing place he's ever lived. He tells him he thinks he's fooling everyone he's ever met and his father says, "You forget, William, that I've known you even longer than you've known yourself."

Will swallows.

"You're not a failure and you're not any of those other things you said. Your life took a detour, that's all. Don't worry about how things look, worry about how you feel."

"I feel hopeless," Will says.

"Then there's no where to go but up, son."

"But, Sam--"

"Sam's on his own journey, Will. Don't worry about making the trek for him, just be there to catch him if he falls."

He feels marginally better by time he hangs up and oddly invigorated by the time he gets home.

At least until he sees Sam and Jackson curled up on the front porch. Then his stomach bottoms out and he's suddenly sharply reminded of the _other_ Sam problem. It isn't a problem so much as a vague sadness that, as much as he's convinced himself to let things happen and take this one day at a time, continues to linger in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about how much he'll miss all of this once Sam figures things out and takes his leave of Will and Jackson and the tiny house in the middle of Iowa.

***

He spends as much time as he can justify at the college once classes wind down. He should have been home days ago and he knows that, but he's not sure what he'll do once he gets there. He had planned to spend the summer working on his book, but he'd also planned on spending the summer alone and reclusive, with no one to notice that fact. He doesn't know what Sam does all day, but he's almost afraid to interrupt it. He's more afraid of being around Sam for hours at a time with nothing to say or do, filling the silence with meaningless babble about whatever pops into his mind, just to keep the quiet from overtaking them, to keep his panic from bubbling out.

But he has to go home sometime. He knows it. His first morning home, he clears his throat over the breakfast table.

"I had planned on using the summer to get some writing done," he says.

Sam nods. "Okay," he says.

"I'll just be in my office," Will says. "And if you need... or if you'd rather...."

"That's fine," Sam says, and goes back to his eggs. Will nods to himself and swallows, emptying his cereal down the garbage disposal and disappearing into his office, doing his best not to betray the haste he's suddenly feeling, the adrenaline running through his veins telling him to run, run, run and close the door behind him, quick.

Once he's there, he spends a long time staring at his computer, wondering what he's going to do now, how long he can possibly avoid Sam while living in the same house as him.

When no answers are apparent, he opens up his laptop, takes a deep breath, and finally begins to write.

And that's how it goes for several long, painful weeks.

***

As the summer inches forward, sometimes he stops writing, stops typing, holds his breath, and listens through the window. He's convinced he can hear the rusty creak of the porch swing, although it might just be his imagination. He's certain he can't hear the soft inhale and exhale of Sam's breathing, but that doesn't stop him from hearing it in the way the breeze filters through the screen.

The arrangement that initally made him feel as though he was ignoring Sam has morphed into something that is nearly crucial to Will's survival. He sees Sam more than he had originally planned, but it becomes easier. He still feels stretched thin when faced with Sam's silent desolation, but he manages to step further into the caregiver role that he's not entirely sure he should take on. They go shopping together and eat together twice a day. He answers Sam's questions about the college, about the town, about the landscape. He offers ideas of things Sam could do if he's bored. He tries to make Sam feel at home, even though this little house in this little town with this little job has yet to make him feel at home himself.

But he still goes into his office every morning and shuts the door behind him. He needs his time alone to freak out, to melt down. He needs time to clutch his desk with a white-knuckled grip and hyperventilate, to remember all of the close encounters, the almost-kisses, the way Sam handed him a tie on a California beach almost ten years ago. He takes the time and allows himself to fall back into his former life, the days when he ached to touch Sam and instead threw himself into work.

He touches as often as he can now. Casual touches, of course. He brushes Sam's shoulder with his fingertips when they pass in the hallway. Leads him through the grocery story with a hand at the small of his back. He squeezes Sam's arm and smiles when Sam says something cute (something at all, really) and rubs between Sam's shoulder blades on the days when his long drives around town don't end until long after the sun has come down.

One night, in California, before everything went pear-shaped all those years ago, Will listened to Sam speak and thought with a heady rush that he might be a little in love with Sam Seaborn. He hadn't even been able to applaud afterwards, he just grinned so big he was afraid of breaking his face and pulled Sam into a half hug when he stepped away from the podium. Sam grinned back, like weaving words together was the easiest thing in the world, and not for the first time, Will wondered what made Sam think they were even in the same league when it came to speech writing.

Sam doesn't speak now, not really. He asks questions, reminds Will that they're out of coffee, asks if they need anything from the store. He doesn't talk now, and as far as Will knows, he doesn't write. Sometimes he finds the crumbled remains of inkstained papers in the pockets of Sam's newly washed pants, but he doesn't ask questions any more than Sam does. They exist as parts of a perfectly oiled but silent system, and it makes Will ache inside in ways he can't, ironically enough, articulate. He wonders what could possibly be running through Sam's head, what could possibly have happened to rob someone so gifted of something that seemed so crucial to his survival. He wonders if Sam's words were ripped from him or if he gave them up voluntarily. He wonders which would be worse.

Will knows he's in love with Sam now, at least as far as he can tell. Even if it's not love, he's perfectly happy with whatever it is and he thinks he'll be perfectly happy even if they never share the kiss Will has been thinking about since Sam handed him that necktie. Still, he can't help but want things to be different, if only because he's starting to forget what Sam sounds like when he's passionate, when he truly cares. He strains against the silence each day, hoping as each passes that the next will hold the answer to unlocking Sam's silence.

***

Will feels the storm before he sees it, a coolness to the day, a prickling on the back of his neck. He feel the emptiness that surrounds the house, the void that storm clouds and rain are going to slide into in a few hours' time. The sky is still blue, but it's fading out to grey and he can tell, the way he's been able to tell for dozens of Iowa storms before, that the sun won't last much longer.

"It's going to rain," he tells Sam at breakfast, still, after all these weeks, futilely trying to fill the silence with anything to distract him from the desperation and loss in Sam's eyes.

"I know," Sam says, stirring idly at his cold cereal. "I'm not sure how, but I do." He doesn't look up, and Will swallows back the chatter that's building up on the tip of his tongue, an endless cascade of facts about barometric pressure and humidity and cloud formations and human bone structure. He doesn't even finish his coffee, just sits at the table until Sam puts his bowl in the dishwasher and Will finally allows himself to escape to his office, to bend over his computer and start his daily ritual of breathing heavily and cursing himself for not taking the first step.

In addition to his four door sedan and a trunk full of boxes, Sam brought with him an entirely new definition of yearning. Will thought he knew what the word meant before, when he and Sam were standing on the tenuous edge of something on the California coast, when he was in DC and Sam was in LA, Chicago, New York, when he was alone and letting his mind drift back to someone who had opened the door to everything he wanted in life but never let him all the way through it. That was nothing compared to this, though. This was a whole new kind of yearning, one that spoke of living in someone's back pocket and being afraid to touch them, of doing their laundry and being unable to carry on a breakfast conversation, of seeing evidence of them everywhere, all around you, pervading your every thought and movement. Will thought he wanted Sam before, but none of that is even close to the feeling that overtakes him when he stares out his window and sees Sam sitting on the hood of his car. It's like wanting to die, or maybe wanting to live. It's something he never would have thought could be new at forty-three, but here he is, so overcome he can't move, not even when the clouds slide in, the heavens open up, the rain comes down, and Sam stays sitting where he is.

Will snaps out of it.

The rain is whipping into his face, big, fat drops that aren't doing nearly enough to break the heat and humidity as Will runs out the door, one hand holding his foggy glasses to his face.

"Sam?" he calls. Sam doesn't turn around, so Will jogs across the driveway, sloshing through quickly forming mud puddles until he can put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam?" he repeats. Sam blinks and turns to him, nodding and sliding off the hood of the car.

"Sorry," he says. "I was just. Sorry."

"Nevermind," Will says. "Just... come inside?" He takes Sam's hand before he can talk himself out of it and tugs him towards the house. Sam goes willingly, and Will wonders if this is the life he's doomed to lead, pulling Sam around by the hand, taking care of him during the day and sleeping alone at night.

Once they're inside, Sam disappears into his room and Will collapses onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of his damp clothes. He figures this will be the last he'll see of Sam until dinner, another long day of sitting on his own and straining to hear even the smallest signs of life from the other room.

He's surprised, then, when the door reopens a few minutes later and Sam reappears wearing dry clothes and toweling off his hair. He sits down on the couch but doesn't say anything or do anything further. Will very slowly sits up, his need to fill Sam's uncomfortable silences rising to the surface once more.

"The power might go out," he says. "We should, you know, get some candles or something." Sam only nods. "The power goes out a lot in these storms," he continues, hoping that he doesn't sound as frantic as he thinks he does, words pouring out to fill the silence that feels heavy all around them, or maybe that's just the humidity. Maybe it's a sign that their own storm is on its way and for all Will's careful posturing, they absolutely cannot go on like this for much longer.

Sam just nods again, shifts a little, and suddenly they're sitting thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Will reaches out before he can think better of it and lets the tips of his fingers graze the side of Sam's hand, some back part of his mind hoping that this is what it will take to break the stifling silence, the heat.

It doesn't, but when Sam threads their fingers together something shifts, and Will thinks that maybe they'll be able to get through another day at least.

***

Will gets an e-mail on Friday morning from the campus list-serv. Whoever put it together chose the gaudiest fonts and colors imaginable to tell the community that the fair starts today at three pm. The Curlz and Comic Sans in magenta and lime green are enough to give him a headache, but even after the e-mail is closed (the after image forever burned into his retinas), his mind is turning over the information. Before he even realizes it, he's standing in the doorway to the porch, hands buried in his pockets and telling Sam that, hey, there's a fair and it's stupid, but maybe they should go.

Sam thinks about it for a moment and then nods his assent, easy as that.

It should be easy. Sam seems to think it's easy as they get in the car and head towards the fairgrounds, his shoulders slumped against the door casually, eyes trained on the horizon. Will is starting to think it was a mistake, though, like all of this has been a mistake, like inviting Sam to live with him has been a mistake. His grad students will be there. Undergrads too, maybe, and other faculty members. Everyone in the college community is likely to show up, and what will he do then? How will he introduce Sam? As a friend? Are they even friends anymore? He's in a tailspin as he pulls into the dusty gravel pit that's been turned into a temporary parking lot, ready to tell Sam he's not feeling well or that maybe this wasn't such a great idea, but then Sam turns to him and smiles. It's a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes him glow and Will finds himself smiling back and following Sam into the melee.

It's not nearly as excruciating as he imagined in those panic-stricken few moments in the car. It's not excruciating at all. He fills the silence, as usual, but it feels less strained than it normally does, it feels like Sam is actually listening to his words. They play midway games--Sam wins the goldfish toss, which is a game that Will has never quite mastered. He gives his prize to a little boy who isn't so lucky and lets Will pick next. He doesn't intentionally pick the shooting gallery to show Sam up, but once Sam begins to stare at him in shock, he can't help but show off a little, smiling slyly as he hands Sam the luridly pink dog that he wins after hitting every target dead-on.

When they do bump into his students, he decides to let them draw their own conclusions.

"This is Sam," he says, fingers grazing the edge of Sam's shoulder in introduction. "Sam, this is Heather, Anna, and Jake. They took my World War II class last term." Sam smiles and asks questions and ribs Will just a little and Will feels almost normal, almost like they're normal, like he could lean over and kiss Sam and no one would notice, no one would care, least of all Sam. He can tell that his students are waiting for him to do just that, but instead he bumps his shoulder against Sam's and suggests they go get a funnel cake, which they consume leaning against the side of the midway, not talking, but smiling at each other like this is who they always are, like they don't walk on eggshells around each other on a regular basis.

It's Sam who suggests the Ferris Wheel, leaving their neon pink friend with the carnie and sliding in next to each other, pressed up together like they were after the storm, not three days ago. Will wants to take Sam's hand again, is thinking about it, has decided to do it once they reach the top, when Sam speaks.

"This is so cliché," he says, almost to himself, and before Will can comment, Sam turns to him. "Are we dating?" he asks, like Will hasn't been asking himself that question for weeks. All he can do is shrug in response.

"Does it matter?" he asks. Sam pauses and then, as if that's the answer he was looking for, leans in and kisses him.

Will's too shocked to do anything other than kiss him back, slide his fingers into Sam's hair and hold him close, as if he'll escape if Will lets go, even as they continue to inch towards the apex of the carnival ride.

This is what Will has wanted for over ten years and even as his body screams for more, he understands how fragile this thing with Sam is, how fragile Sam has been since he showed up on Will's doorstep, if not before that. He convinces himself that this is all he needs tonight, and it really is, just making out like teenagers and holding each other close as they spin around on the ferris wheel. Sam's fingers slide over the back of Will's neck and the small of his back where his shirt has ridden up, and that's more than enough, so when the ride ends and Sam says, "Let's go home," it takes Will by surprise.

At first, it comes from the fact that Sam uses the word "home." There's a warmth there, a sense of belonging and it thrills Will to his toes. Then he really listens to the words, see the look in Sam's eyes, and the thrill changes to something hot and urgent and Will barely stops to grab the stuffed dog from the carnie before taking Sam's hand and leading him back towards the car.

They stumble out of the car already in each others' arms, laughing and breathless and limping towards the house, stopping to lean up against the walls and kiss and smile and Sam says, "God, Will, Christ, you're so... all this time and you're just so..." and Will kisses him quiet because he's _nothing_ , he's pale and wishy-washy next to Sam and his fucking _incandescence._

"I think I," Sam stutters, and of course, after months of silence, now is when he decides to start talking, "I mean, I may have always, but since coming here, I'm sure I--"

"Shut up," Will whispers, and kisses Sam again and again until he understands. "Later, please, just--god, you're _beautiful._ "

And Sam may not believe it, but he doesn't try to say anything more.

***

"You're amazing." It's something Sam has been repeating softly for the past few minutes, whispering it into the narrow space between their bodies as they fight off sleep and hold on to each other.

"You keep saying that," Will murmurs, stroking Sam's sweaty hair off of his forehead and leaning in to kiss him again. "I think you're crazy." Sam laughs and rolls closer despite the heat, pressing into Will's touch and tracing his fingers in abstract patterns on Will's shoulder.

"I'm not," Sam insists. Thinking better, he adds, "Okay, I probably am, but not about this. You just... this is completely different than anything I ever would have imagined for you. Iowa, I mean. Teaching and living here and just... being here. But you make it work. You make it seem natural and serene and right. You have such a hold on everything. You're just..." He manages a shrug. "You're amazing."

Will's not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. Because he's not. He's not amazing, he doesn't have a hold on _shit_ , and his life isn't serene. He has no idea why Sam could possibly think this was anything but a last ditch effort to get away from his mistakes and grievances in Washington. He feels like a fraud, barely inching by and somehow managing to fool everyone.

"I don't think that's true," he says softly, not meeting Sam's eyes, engrossing himself with the tattered edge of the duvet. "I think you think this is a lot easier for me than it really is."

"I think that you're not afraid of your past," Sam says. "You're not afraid to move on. That might not seem like much to you, but it's everything to me."

Will wants to protest, but lying in bed with Sam's skin beneath his fingertips, Sam's breath brushing his cheek, Sam's hands at the small of his back, he honestly can't think of anything to say. He's not unhappy, not at the moment. Even the constant anger that he used to feel has long since faded to a dull resentment in the back of his mind, when he thinks of it at all. He doesn't dislike teaching, and he loves most of his students. He has his house and his cat and frequent visits from his family. Friends in town--not many, but enough. And now he has Sam.

Instead of protesting, he rolls around, wraps his arms around Sam's waist, and tells Sam his story. He tells him that Iowa was a mistake. He tells him that Iowa is beautiful. He tells him that maybe this isn't the end, and when Sam squeezes his his hands, he knows that perhaps Iowa was the best mistake he ever could have made.

***

Exactly two things change when they finally start sleeping together: the guest room goes back into disuse and Sam starts smiling more.

It takes Will a few days to pin down the smiling thing as an actual result. Sam has good days and bad days; bad days involve driving until it's dark and saying nothing more than, "I'm home" and "I'm tired," while good days are filled with smiles and laughter and conversation. Will gives it a week, mentally cateloging Sam's mood each day, and decides on Monday morning that the smiles are a result of the sex.

As well they should be. The sex is phenomenal. The sex is everything he'd hoped it would be from the first time he laid eyes on Sam Seaborn. They move together the same way they move around the house, fluid and always aware of where the other is. They laugh and smile and sometimes they hold on just a little too tightly. They fuck the same way they live and that, more than anything else, is what sets Will at ease after a summer of vibrating with stomach-churning tension. At night, he curls around Sam's body, molds himself to it, kisses each bump of Sam's spine. He puts his fingers over the bruises on Sam's hips and the only thing that stops him from kissing each of them is the limits of his own flexibility. He'd have to move in order to get his mouth that far down Sam's body and he doesn't want to move ever again if he can help it.

Some mornings, when he wakes, Sam's already gone, but most of the time he's still there, wrapped in Will's arms and staring at him with those wide blue eyes. Sam's eyes remind him of the way the sky goes on forever as far as he can see. Sometimes, sitting on the porch and staring out into all of that sky makes Will's stomach bottom out.

Sometimes, staring at Sam's eyes does the same thing.

***

"What are you writing?" Sam asks him, fingers sliding down the line of his spine, curling around his neck. Will's not sure why it took the county fair for Sam to realize he had permission to touch whenever he wanted, but he's deeply glad for it, almost as glad as he is for the question, for the interest, for the fact that Sam is standing here with him instead of sitting on the swing a shout a room a world away.

"Memoirs," Will replies, raising his hand to stroke the back of Sam's. "Fiction, some days, but it gets..." He makes a complicated gesture with his free hand, trying to encapsulate the frustration of rambling prose that manages to suffocate every idea he has. Sam gets it the way that no one else, save maybe Toby Zeigler, ever could. He rubs the spot between Will's shoulders and leans over. Will can feel the heat of Sam's lips trace gently down the back of his neck and closes his eyes. How he could have ever thought that what he had before was enough is beyond him.

"I miss writing," Sam says quitely from somewhere in the vicinity of Will's collar.

There's a pause. Will listens to the soft whisper of their breathing.

"I miss your writing too," Will says.

***

Sam says, "Do you ever miss the ocean?"

It's nearly September and things have been going well--so well. Sam's bad days are almost nonexistent, to the point that when they happen, Will almost aches with loneliness, forgetting that for months this was all he had.

They're standing at the counter, emptying the dishwasher. Will is drying the last lingering remnants of water from the bottom of a glass when Sam adds, "Even a little?"

"The ocean?" Will asks. "I..." He thinks about it, thinks about California and Nice and Belgium and the Chesapeake Bay.

"No," he says. "Who needs ocean when you have all that sky?"

Sam doesn't seem to understand, but he doesn't ask again, and they finish the dishwasher in silence. Will thinks maybe he was lying--maybe he does miss the ocean. Maybe he just misses what the ocean means. It doesn't matter, though. He has his life in Iowa and he has Sam and even if he tried to go back to that life, to the ocean and the bay and everything else he left behind, he doesn't think he'd fit in quite right. He's changed too much to know what to do with those things, even if he hasn't changed enough to stop wanting them.

Later, he disappears to his office to finish his syllabus and return some e-mails. He glances out his window and sees Sam lying on the roof of his car, staring up at the endless sky.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sam gets it too.


End file.
